


Next Time

by Wetislandinthenorthatlantic



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Mollcroft, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic/pseuds/Wetislandinthenorthatlantic
Summary: I do not own these characters. This work is purely for entertainment.****This is was mostly written before S4 -- although I do call Rosie by her name.Stickyrive is having a bad day! I hope this cheers her up! A huge thanks to onegirlandherpen for the beta and advice!There are a few things that need italics, but I can't seem to do it on my mini so I'll add them tomorrow.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stickyrive](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Stickyrive).



> I do not own these characters. This work is purely for entertainment. 
> 
> ****
> 
> This is was mostly written before S4 -- although I do call Rosie by her name.
> 
> Stickyrive is having a bad day! I hope this cheers her up! A huge thanks to onegirlandherpen for the beta and advice!
> 
> There are a few things that need italics, but I can't seem to do it on my mini so I'll add them tomorrow.

St Bart's

A hiss of pain rushed through Mycroft’s clenched teeth when the alcohol swab hit the gash near his left eye.

“Sorry.”  Molly’s response was curt and carried little actual sympathy “Your brother is an idiot.”

“Genius with a narcotics addiction is significantly more accurate,” replied Mycroft drolly as his fists clenched from both nerves and pain while watching Molly prepare the injection of local anaesthetic. 

“Doesn't matter what his IQ is, he could have taken your eye out with that broken flask. Bloody git,” was added under her breath. “This is going to sting.” 

Mycroft swallowed hard. The alcohol swab had come with no such warning. His eyes were following the needle now poised near his face. 

As the sting hit him Mycroft gave a sharp inhale and muttered a string of profanities under his breath. Soon an odd numbness was seeping around his left eye. 

From his seat at the least destroyed station in Molly’s lab he watched the seething pathologist stomping around, slamming cupboards and muttering to herself as she collected the necessary supplies needed to stitch him up.  

The procedure was abrupt. Comments about bedside manner or lack-there-of in doctors who work in morgues were very wisely never uttered. Although he didn't know her well, he knew that tonight was not a true indication of Molly’s nature. Tonight it was clear his brother had pushed her nearly to the edge. Their friendship was now holding on only by a frayed string.

Mycroft watched Molly snap off her gloves-- covered in his blood— and toss them in the bin, then wash her hands before returning to stand in front of him.

“He deserves to be taught a lesson.”   
   
Was she was actually speaking to him or had a bit of her inner monologue accidentally been verbalised? 

“I've been trying for years.” The words filled with stress, pain and loss slipped out before he could stop them. He caught Molly’s look of sympathy as her mask of fury dropped for an instant.   
   
As their eyes met, her cool damp hand settled gently on his flushed cheek.  He was overcome by an unfamiliar craving— to feel her close— to touch her. Powerless to resist he found himself pulling her towards him and she made no effort to pull away. 

The spark caused by their lips touching ignited an unexpected fire in both.  
   
Soon, with lungs burning, the pair were gasping for air, foreheads resting on each other desperate to retain contact. 

“He will be angry I've kissed his pathologist,” whispered Mycroft with a smirk. 

“He will be furious if he ever finds out what we did in the Visitation Room,” replied Molly with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. 

The Visitation Room was next to Molly’s office. It was were the next of kin waited before viewing  a body in the morgue and where they received the personal effects of the deceased. Molly brought in fresh flowers for the vase in the middle of the large oval wooden table each Monday and Thursday. She also bought different cleaning supplies for the cleaners to use so it wouldn't smell like a hospital. 

Confusion only had a moment to cloud his face before Molly was once again kissing him and pulling him off the stool. He had to bend down at an awkward angle to not lose contact with her lips. He was only vaguely aware she was manoeuvring the both of them through a doorway. 

What did she mean ‘What we did in the visitation room’? 

And then it hit him, ‘Oh. OH!’

//

For all his worldly-swagger Mycroft was not the sort of man that bedded women randomly or casually.  
   
He was a gentleman. Coupling required wooing, small tokens of affection, bouquets of flowers, walks in the park, reading poetry aloud by a roaring fire, drives in the country to quaint secluded pubs, dinner in restaurants with six-month waiting lists, and finally hotel suites overlooking the Thames. 

In other words the whole palaver was such a pain in the ass he had given it up years ago. 

So it came as quite a surprise to him when exactly seven minutes after Molly had put in the fifth suture in above his eye his trousers from Saville Row were lying in a pool around his ankles. His hips were pistoning in and out of her as she lay on the Visitation Room table, her hands gripping the sides and her feet around his neck.  

Molly’s trousers and knickers had been discarded and thrown carelessly on the chair in the corner. Her top was still on and Mycroft didn't think he had even managed to touch either of her breasts. 

Pity.

From the noises Molly was making Mycroft surmised she was both enjoying this very much and nearly done. 

Mycroft could feel guilt creeping in. She didn't deserve this—little more than a grudge fuck brought on by Sherlock being wicked and crashing about until all his friends were so keyed up they were ready to snap.

Molly, poor long suffering Molly, of all people, should have the wooing, and the long drawn out afternoons of foreplay before slow love-making in the middle of a soft bed. Not a teeth shattering orgasm on a table in a room with a door leading to one of London’s oldest morgues  less than 10 minutes after their first kiss.

The words 'next time' tumbled into his brain and caught him so off guard it became a struggle to hold his release off much longer. 

“When you reach completion, feel free to scream my brother's name. I shall take great pleasure in holding it against him forever." Through gritted teeth, his cadence matched the rhythm of his hips slapping relentlessly into Molly’s thighs. 

Lazily opening her dilated eyes Molly groaned. “I have had many fantasies about your brother. In none of them was he capable of this.”

Giving into his urges Mycroft pulled Molly roughly towards him as he bent over her,  his final strokes becoming  long, smooth and extremely deep. Her arms and legs wrapped around him tightly as she unraveled, devilishly whispering, "Oh My- My- Mycroft."

His end came with a primal grunt and a promise to himself that next time would be different.

Next time? Next time. 

//

“Where the hell have you two been?” Greg, arms crossed, was standing outside a hospital room door three floors up from the Visitation Room.  His demeanour was as stressed as when they last saw him 22 minutes before. 

“Sherlock’s little stunt with the broken flask; I had to stitch him up.” Molly replied curtly as she walked through the door Greg was holding open for them. 

Mycroft could feel Greg’s stare and hoped the copper missed the fact his feet weren't touching the ground and most likely wouldn't be until tomorrow afternoon. 

Sherlock lay on the hospital bed; restraints on his arms and legs, his eyes closed. A vital signs monitor showing his heart beat as slow and steady had been muted. 

John stood at the foot of the bed, a pained expression on his face. 

“It's my fault,” he confessed to the assembled group. “I told him I just need a bit of space. Just for a couple of months. The thing with Mary— and now there’s Rosie. I just need some time— to figure some things out.”

The four conscious people in the room stared silently at the fifth lying in front of them.

John left silently, sheepishly. 

“Well folks,” Greg replied “I got a call to make. Got to go. See you next time.”

Once the pair were alone with Sherlock Mycroft took a deep breath and let his gaze fall on Molly.

"Until next time Dr Hooper," his words were barely above a whisper. 

"Until next time." replied Molly with a small smile. 


End file.
